They Grew Up Heroes
by RbtlSR
Summary: Everyone knew that Dean admired John. Everyone knew that John made Dean feel like a failure. But no one knew everything that John did. Destiel if you squint, can be seen as just friendship. Trigger warnings for past underage noncon, incest/sexual abuse. Somewhat graphic memories.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: So I hate John. I really hate him. I hate the responsibility that he put on Dean when he was only a kid. I hate him for making Dean think that he was never good enough. This is probably not the story to read if you like John.**

**We can just pretend for this story that Bobby is still alive. Denial works, right?**

**Trigger warning for childhood sexual abuse.**

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><p>"Why are you defending him, Dean?" Sam snapped, venom in his voice, "he's dead. You don't owe him anything. Not after the way he treated you.<p>

"Shut up, Sam. You barely knew him. Just, fuck off."

_Dean was 14 the first time it happened. The hunt hadn't been that difficult, but he had been stupid and gotten himself scratched by the werewolf. He was always being careless and getting himself or others hurt. _

_He had his shirt off and John was inspecting the deepest wound. "You were reckless, Dean. Pulling another stupid stunt like this could get us both killed. You could have gotten us both killed, Dean. Then who would take care of your brother?" Dean hung his head in shame, fighting back the tears that threatened to pour out of his eyes. He knew he had fucked up. He had only wanted to make his father proud of him. _

_He gasped in pain when the needle first pierced his skin as his father roughly began stitching him up. A hissed "man up" was the only response he got to his pain. He tried not to squirm. _

_When he had finished stitching the wound John's hands did not leave Dean's back. Instead they rubbed and kneaded his tense muscles. Something about his father's pushy hands on his bare skin made him very uncomfortable, but he said nothing._

"_You're really growing up, Dean. So strong already." The hands on him became more demanding, seeming to go lower and dig in deeper, covering all his skin. Dean squirmed out of his grasp. John let him. Not another word was spoken about that night._

"Fuck," Dean groaned, pacing back and forth with his hands on his head. "Fuck, fuck, fucking fuck." He had failed to protect Sammy. He always failed.

"Calm down, Boy. Your brother's fine," Bobby tried to reason with the obviously upset hunter.

"No thanks to my incompetence," a very irate Dean snapped back.

"How on Earth was it your fault? You brother was an idjit and got banged up a bit. He'll survive. It's not your job to protect everyone, Dean."

Dean stopped pacing. Bobby couldn't make out the look on his face. He was either going to cry or punch something, really hard. Either way, the pain and guilt in his eyes was unmistakeable. Finally, he spoke, practically spitting out the words. "Damn good thing it isn't." and then almost inaudibly "because I fail at it." He downed another shot before continuing. "And it _is _my job to take care of Sammy."

Bobby felt his heart breaking in the way that it only did around the boys... his boys. "Your dad did all sortsa damage to ya, Dean." He didn't know what else to say. He didn't know what John had done to make Dean feel like he had to carry every burden on his shoulders. He didn't know if there was anything he could do. If John were still alive he'd throttle the prick.

"He made me into a man" was all that Dean said back, his voice suddenly steel.

"_I'll make you into a man" John had growled, voice thick with rum the first time that he made Dean do it. Dean hadn't wanted to, but his father had said that he needed it to be focused on the hunt. He'd said he'd be too distracted without it. If Dean hadn't done it and anything went wrong on the hunt it would have been his fault even more so than usual. So he did it. It tasted awful. _

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><p><strong>AN: Thanks for reading. That was a really short chapter, I know. It felt like a good place to end it though. I will definitely be updating again in the somewhat-near future. **

**Feedback would be awesome :)**

**Thanks for reading!  
><strong>


	2. Chapter 2

It was his ritual. About once a week he would sneak out of the motel room in the middle of the night and sit in the Impala. The darkness and the silence would erase the years and he would be back in his teenage mind, reliving the memories.

He didn't know why he forced himself to relive them. They always left him feeling worse, and half the time some inanimate object would be on the receiving end of violence.

Maybe he did it to prove to himself that it actually happened. Maybe it made him grateful for the things he had now. Maybe it was his way of processing it.

But really, it was because he deserved the pain of the memories.

"_Your brother is looking so grown up these days," John had growled into Dean's ear one night. Dean grimaced and ground out a pained "Dad, he's twelve." John simply shrugged._

"Fuck!"

Castiel had done that appear-out-of-nowhere-with-no-warning thing again, and Dean was caught off guard, jerked out of his memories.

"Dammit, Cas! You gotta give people warning!"

His heart was still pounding from the shock at being interrupted from his private thoughts. It was only now that he realized that his hands had been balled into fists, nails digging into his palms. He forced himself to relax.

"Why are you in your car when Sam is in the motel room? It is warmer in there," was all that Castiel said. Even in the dark interior of the Impala the angel could tell that something was wrong.

"Just… go away. I'm thinking."

"About what?"

The friggin' angel just couldn't get a hint.

Dean really wished that he hadn't chosen that exact moment to show up. He hadn't been crying of course. He never cried when he relived _those_ memories. Bad things happened when he cried.

"_What, boy? Do you not like it? If you don't like it I'm sure Sam would. Sam would respect me and obey me. Sam would give me what I need."_

"_No, Dad," he would reply every time, sounding younger than ever, "I love you. I respect you. I'll obey you." And over and over again in his head "not Sam. No, not Sammy. Please, not Sammy."_

"_Then stop fucking crying and disrespecting me."_

Castiel laid a hand on Dean's shoulder but Dean jumped away at the touch.

"Nothing you would understand." It didn't matter anyway.

A look of unexplained deep sadness found its way into angel's visage.

Though he pulled his hand away he looked Dean in the eyes and merely stated, "angels talk. We know things. I know things that you think no one knows."

"_No one will ever know. You know what will happen if you tell. No one would believe you anyway."_

Dean felt his stomach drop. Of course Castiel didn't know this. He couldn't. No one did. No one could ever know.

It was time to end this conversation.

Had he been listening more closely as he scrambled out of the Impala and slammed the door behind him he might have heard the angel's soft words: "it wasn't your fault."

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><p><strong>AN: I've never written in this style before, so I hope you guys like it. Are the short chapters too annoying?**

**Please note that any judgmental or negative feelings expressed about Dean ("But really, it was because he deserved the pain of the memories," "It didn't matter anyway," etc.) are all Dean's thoughts; they are not meant to be taken as truth, but show how he feels about himself.  
><strong>

** I've been really busy with schoolwork and the AP tests are in a few weeks, and I suck at estimating update dates anyway, so let's just hope I can update soon. Thanks for your patience!**

**Let me know what you think thus far?**


	3. Chapter 3

Some things didn't make sense to Castiel.

Humans were always hurting each other, but the truly despicable humans never felt guilt. The kind, good, righteous humans always felt the most pain.

_It wasn't your fault, Dean._

_It wasn't your fault, Dean._

The words struggled inside of him every week when he watched Dean sit in the Impala. He knew, of course, what the man had done to Dean, but his rage at that was nothing compared to the surge of feeling when he realized what Dean did in the Impala behind motels on late and lonely nights.

_It wasn't your fault, Dean._

As he watched the hunter cry in the dark, night after night.

_It wasn't your fault, Dean._

As he watched the hunter take the sharpest blows without a word, but flinch at a tender touch.

_It wasn't your fault, Dean._

He whispered as the hunter- his hunter- ran from the Impala, his heart beating faster than any non-human monster could cause.

Then it was his turn to sit alone in the prized car, sobbing. He cried for the five year old Dean, who wanted nothing more than to be a good son. He cried for the ten year old Dean, who was constantly told that he wasn't. He cried for the fifteen year old Dean, who was used in ways no one should be, but endured it all to protect his brother. He cried for twenty year old Dean, who was still convinced that he deserved it. He cried for Dean, who cried out of self-hatred, but could not cry for himself.

Some hours later, with only a throbbing headache as proof that the night had happened, Dean felt a dip on his bed.

"_It wasn't your fault, Dean."_

An arm was around him.

It felt nice.

Of course it felt nice. Of course he wanted it.

Pathetic.

Castiel witnessed the internal conflict, and was not surprised when Dean twisted out of the touch and turned his back, though he'd be lying if he said he wasn't disappointed.

"Good night, Dean."

_It wasn't your fault, Dean._

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><p><strong>AN: **Sorry that this took so long to update! My summer got busy and I'm in college with 17 credit hours and I'm just super super busy.

Also, please forgive the craptastic writing, because I'm out of practice.


	4. Chapter 4

_John's hands were everywhere on him. That wasn't uncommon. This time was different, though. When John achieved his release they weren't done. His hands snuck their way around Dean, and in minutes brought him to the same completion. Dean cried more than usual that night, long after John had left._

"Dean!"  
>"DEAN!"<p>

Rough hands shook him awake and he screamed, pulling away, terrified that John wasn't done for the night.

"Dean! It's me."

Oh. He opened his eyes to meet the intense blue gaze of the angel. He glanced at the clock and, feigning nonchalance, mumbled, "It's the middle of the night, Cas. Don't you have anything better to do than interrupt my sleep?"

"You were experiencing an upsetting dream, Dean. I'm sorry if in waking you I frightened you," Cas's face betraying the deep concern that his words tried to hide.

"'s okay," Dean mumbled in response before flipping on his side, once again turning his back to Cas.

Castiel slid his body down the bed and wrapped a protective arm around Dean again, the way Dean unconsciously leaned in to him not going unnoticed.

After a second Dean shoved his arm off again.

"Why?" was all that Castiel could ask, not understanding why Dean would reject the touch that seemed to calm him. Human friends often used touch to calm or reassure one another, and it seemed to be something Dean benefited from, so why could he not accept it?

After several minutes of heavy silence filling the room, the harsh response he received was only, "just… don't."

_"Don't pretend you don't like it when I touch you, boy. I make you hard just by touching you. I make you come. You like when I touch you. You don't even have to admit it. Your body gives you away. If I didn't give this to you you'd just go get it from someone else. You're not better than I am."_

_His body betrayed him. The touch felt good. How sick and twisted could he possibly be? How could he blame John when he obviously wanted it?_

_He enjoyed being touched, and that made him sick._

It had felt good when Castiel put his arm around him, but he could not permit himself the touch.

He had no right to enjoy Cas's touch. More than anything, he wanted was to curl up in a ball against Castiel and let the angel hold him and soothe him until he felt safe. It was pathetic. He was pathetic.

It had been his own fault, and he did not deserve Castiel's comfort.

The angel was so good and pure, and Dean could not allow him to be soiled by his sickness.


	5. Chapter 5

"Are we ever going to talk about it?" Bobby finally asked one morning over his mug of coffee.  
>"Talk about what?" Dean finally asked, his face as indifferent as Bobby's was concerned.<br>"I dunno, boy, you tell me, starting with the reason you look like a scared little boy any time someone so much as tries to put an arm round ya' when you're not lookin'."  
>Dean slammed his mug down on the table and ground out what would have been a convincing, "It's nothing. Mind your own goddamn business," had his voice not wavered slightly.<br>It was not lost on the older man, who simply enveloped the hunter in a bone-crunching hug, muttering gruffly in his ear, "It wasn't your fault, Dean."

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><p>Late that night all he could think about was Bobby's words. What wasn't his fault? What did Bobby know?<p>

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><p>He woke up to Castiel in his bed again that morning. He didn't flinch as much that time. He even let Castiel wrap his arms around him for five minutes before squirming away.<br>Hands tugged through his hair as he drifted back to sleep, words whispered in his ear, "You can talk to Bobby. He cares about you."

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><p><em>"Uncle Bobby can never know about this! Do you understand? This is between us. If you tell him you'll ruin all of this, and when I can't hunt and people get hurt it will be your fault."<em>

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><p><em><em>**A/N:** I'm unsure whether I want to make this story evolve into a romantic and/or sexual relationship with Castiel or stay platonic. If you have an opinion on the matter, speak now or forever hold your peace.


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